


On the Narrow Edge

by Sineala



Category: The Eagle (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM, Community: kink_bingo, Directedverse, F/M, Lies, Military, Secrets, Uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-15
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus likes armor and authority, and no one can ever know. It is therefore a very, very bad idea for him to join the army.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Narrow Edge

**Author's Note:**

> This is a side story of Marcus' past in a Directedverse-style BDSM AU, the main story of which is still unfinished. (You know, the kind of story where the entire world is in a 24/7 D/s lifestyle.) There is a lot of backstory and worldbuilding that is mostly assumed here, but the salient point is that Marcus is secretly a submissive who lied in order to enlist. Oh, and there is gender equality.
> 
> The particular worldbuilding here, as well as the story this is eventually a part of, is all courtesy of Carmarthen. Thanks!
> 
> Title stolen from a translation of the quotation _Ita enim finitima sunt falsa veris [...] ut in praecipitem locum non debeat se sapiens committere._
> 
> For Kink Bingo, the "uniforms/military kink" square.

Marcus Flavius Aquila hates weapons practice. His arm shakes from holding the heavy wicker shield. In his other hand, the staff that he wields in place of a gladius is slick with his own sweat from the exertion of holding it upright. It is supposed to be heavy. He knows this. The practice arms are twice as heavy as the real ones, in fact, so that he will be prepared for their weight. But the cratis and the clava are not why he hates this.

The Egyptian sun beats mercilessly down on them, the line of recruits in the field, and it feels as though they have been drilling, attacks and counterattacks, for hours now. But that is not why he hates this, either.

No, he hates it because they are in the middle of the camp, bustling with life and activity. Messengers ride out constantly, or run with scroll cases, and he can only stare. At one point half a century comes by, the soldiers proud and resplendent in their armor, the bands of metal around them shining in the sun, gladius and dagger swinging at their belts. The optio of the century trails behind, long staff in her hands, with her plumed helmet framing a fierce, beautiful face as she calls out to her troops, half-ordering, half-haranguing.

"Double speed! March faster, _fellatores_!" she yells, in a voice that abides no disagreement, and Marcus imagines she is saying that to him--

Surus, his sparring partner, hits him hard in the side with his staff, and Marcus is on the ground. Again.

He has lost count of how many times he has fallen, distracted by a soldier walking past. When he had thought to join the military, to bring his family honor, to restore their name, he had not perhaps thought through all the implications of being surrounded by soldiers at every hour of every day.

Marcus pulls himself to his feet, raises his shield, and braces himself for another attack. If he were a true victor, not a liar, not a secret sufferer-- he does not know how the victores feel about this, taking orders, surrounded by men and women who are full of so much power and confidence that merely standing near them makes one heady with the closeness of it. But he knows how he feels, which is that he wants to obey all of them. At once. It is torture.

His... affection for the uniforms only compounds the problem. Perhaps he will feel differently, when he is issued with his own arms and armor. Perhaps the novelty will dull. Perhaps he will stop rubbing himself off thinking of victores standing above him, girded for battle.

Marcus steps forward, driving blows against Surus', which the other man easily blocks, but Marcus presses forward, edging in under his defenses, and he is doing better.

It is then that his centurion paces down their part of the line. Her name is Gaia Naevia Cypriana, and she is the worst distraction of them all.

"Harder, Sorex!" Cypriana calls out, and Marcus, though that is not his name, slams his staff against Surus' shield hard enough to shake his arm all the way up to his shoulder. He grits his teeth.

"Evodia! Lina!" she snaps to two women, a few soldiers away. "Shields up! Higher!" And then a pause. "Yes, like that. Good!"

Marcus' knees go weak at the praise, though it was not meant for him. And he dares not turn, nor take his eyes away from Surus, because he knows he will see the centurion in her uniform and it will be worse again.

He does not know why Cypriana is wearing full battle-dress to watch them. If a rational part of his mind had to guess, he would think it would be to impress her rank and authority on them. And on Marcus, it is working far too well.

He has tried so hard to avoid looking, but as Cypriana stands behind Surus, watching them, Marcus cannot help but stare. She wears lorica hamata, a short mail-shirt, the links of its neck fastened with a gleaming hook at her throat, over the scarf and the bulky subarmalis that she is wearing on top of her tunic. The tunic and mail are both short, of course, with the mail only coming to her waist, and the long leather pteruges hanging from the subarmalis flutter down over her muscled arms and thighs for extra protection. Her cloak, brilliantly red in the sun, is fastened, as always, on her right shoulder, to leave her hand free. Belts for her gladius and dagger settle on her hips, though at this moment she is tapping a vine-staff against her palm. And under her crested helm, she is glaring. At Marcus.

Marcus only hopes his arousal is not visible.

"Aquila! Pay attention!" she calls out, and Marcus' eyes snap instantly to her face. _Yes. Order me._ "Not to me, damn you, to Surus!"

Marcus' face goes hot with embarrassment and he drops his gaze back to his opponent.

"Sir!"

And as he recovers enough to attack Surus again, the centurion gives him an odd smile, grim like a soldier in battle, but spreading wide and beautiful across her strong Greek features. Marcus feels pride well up within him.

Of course, as she walks away, Marcus can only stare at her long legs, the way the pteruges move as she walks, the way the straps of her caligae wrap up her calves, under the back of her greaves. And he falls again when Surus hits him in the jaw, but it is worth it.

* * *

He falls, miserably, heavily, shamefully, several more times over the course of the practice, knowing he is the worst of the lot of recruits. He hopes no one else notices that many of the falls coincided with Gaia Cypriana's presence.

When Cypriana finally calls the practice to a halt, Surus favors him with a disgusted look and says nothing. Marcus knows he has hardly given the man a fair fight.

"Recruits!" Cypriana snaps, with a voice that suggests long years of practice keeping victores in line. "Stow the practice equipment, and then you have a free hour. Except Aquila."

Marcus flushes, and there is some snickering at that.

Ruso, next to him, whoops in amusement. "You were the worst on the field, Aquila. She'll probably make you polish her parade gear!"

And as Ruso claps him hard on the back in companionship before leaving, Marcus shudders and tries not to think any more about Cypriana in her armor.

The centurion comes up to him, then, as everyone is leaving, and Marcus tries desperately to clear his mind of all other thought as she tilts her head up to stare at him, imperious, her dark eyes narrowing in the sunlight.

"Aquila, in my tent," she says, quietly, but it is no less an order for its volume. " _Now_."

He follows.

As they walk through the crowded camp, Marcus' mind fills with questions. What does Cypriana want with him? How will she punish him for inattention? Will she cut his pay? What if he has slipped, somehow? What if he has done something to give himself away as a sufferer? There was that prostitute he tried to buy, the one who laughed at him before he left in embarrassment, but that was not here in Nicopolis, and he did not give his name, so Cypriana cannot know. There is no way she could know. She must not know. He would be executed. Sufferers may not be soldiers, for how can one conquer a people for Rome without even being able to conquer another person?

They arrive at the tent, and Cypriana closes the flaps behind them. The first thing she does in the dimness is pull off her helm, fingers working at the leather fastenings at her chin, and then she drops the helm on her desk. Her dark hair, cropped short the way all soldiers wear it, is plastered to her skull with sweat, curling on her forehead. She is not beautiful, not as the term is usually used, for those are words only for pretty sufferers. But she is strong-featured, and handsome even with the ragged sword-scar, hidden earlier by her helm, curving down her cheek to her jaw. Or perhaps she is attractive because of it.

"Ah!" she says, grinning in relief, rubbing at her neck. "That is better; the helms are the worst part, and they are all the heavier for the crest. They don't tell you that when they promote you."

Marcus stands, hands behind his back. He has not been asked to sit, and Cypriana has not sat either. But perhaps this fine mood of his centurion's means nothing ill is to happen. "Sir," he says, neutrally, nodding.

"How old are you, Aquila?"

Cypriana comes around the desk now, perching herself up on the edge of the desk, looking thoughtful. And Marcus will not stare at her so. He will not. He is only looking at her face.

It is a strange question, but he answers it. "I am in my nineteenth year, centurion."

Cypriana tilts her head and smiles, briefly. The smile is almost cruel, baring her teeth, like a cat toying with a mouse. "And how in the world did you ever fool the Judges, boy?"

Marcus feels all the blood drain from his face. All the air leaves his lungs. "I-- I--" _I am a victor_ , he tries to say, as he said to the Judges, but the words will not pass his lips. She knows. She knows.

"Come now. Tell me. Did you bribe them?"

Marcus shakes his head violently. "I am a victor," he manages, whispering. "I am a true victor. They judged me, and I passed."

Cypriana laughs at that, a harsh sound. "What, they gave you a girl and you ordered her to debase herself in front of you, yes? You made her do all the work? So you did not have to bind her or beat her, because then no one would see that you took no joy in that? They would see, you know, if you were not smiling as you hit her. But you learned that trick, I am certain. You probably had her kneel and you came on her face, didn't you?" She gives him a considering look. "Yes, I think you could have managed that."

"Her back," Marcus corrects her, before he can stop himself. "And what of it? I passed. I am a victor," he repeats, even as terror fills his heart.

"You're not the only sufferer in the army." Cypriana's reply is almost too quiet for him to hear, and he cannot tell from her face, hard like stone, whether she will kill him for this. And then her face twists into a kind of anguish, and there is an emotion in her eyes that he cannot discern. "But you can't do this, Aquila."

"I can't do what?"

"This!" She waves a hand at him, forceful, a shoving motion, like a punch that does not hit. "Do you even know how you look? You don't, do you?"

Marcus frowns, confused. "How do I look?"

"You're pretty." She smiles, and Marcus feels himself blush. "You're a pretty one, boy, and you're so damned innocent, and that mouth on you--"

"My mouth?"

"Every time an officer walks by, you look like you want to drop to your knees in the middle of the camp."

Marcus squeezes his eyes shut and lowers his head. He has been laid bare now, flayed to the bone, open for the world to see, and there is his shameful lie and secret desire, both revealed. And he must die for this.

"Yes," he whispers.

Several breaths pass. Cypriana would be well within the law to execute him right now, right here, if she liked.

"Open your eyes, Aquila." And he does, of course he does. He is ordered. "If you want to pass for a victor, you can't act like this. You can't do this. And you especially can't do this to me."

"What--" he swallows, his mouth suddenly dry-- "what am I doing to you?"

"Making it very hard to do my job, soldier," she replies, and now the dark, unreadable look in her eyes is laced with frustration. "Do you know how difficult it is to get anything done around here when, every time I see you, you're looking at me like you're just waiting for me to tie you up and flog you?"

"Oh." That is the only word Marcus can manage, as he tries not to picture that very thing.

"So," she says, even more quietly, "I have a proposal. I will teach you how to be a proper soldier, so no one else will ever suspect, and you--" Cypriana stops then, and smiles, once again, and Marcus realizes that the look in her eyes, the one he couldn't read, is lust, hot and possessive and demanding.

His heart pounds in his chest, and he cannot wait for her to finish the sentence before he answers. "Yes."

"Don't interrupt me," she says, irritably, and heat thrills all down Marcus' spine and he is suddenly, painfully hard. "And, you, Aquila, you will kneel, as I order you. Beginning now."

Marcus drops instantly to his knees, in front of where his commander is still sitting on the edge of the desk, and she laughs and cards her strong fingers through his hair.

"Good boy," she murmurs. "I like you already."

Marcus leans his head against her leg and feels more contented than he can remember feeling in his entire life.

Then Cypriana leans back on the desk, hikes up her tunic, and shoves the pteruges out of the way. With her free hand she drags Marcus' head forward.

"Lick me."

He has not done this before. She is not singed or plucked as prostitutes are, and his face becomes messy and wet rather quickly, but he finds that he likes the taste of it, he likes the feel of it. Cypriana's thighs are shaking around his head, and her heavy caligae dig painfully into his back. He does not mind the pain.

And she encourages him, just as she commands in practice, holding his head just so, pushing him down harder.

"Move your tongue up, Aquila," she hisses, imperious. "Harder. Do not be so delicate. Ah, yes, just there--" and she bites off a moan, but her breathing comes faster in pleasure.

He finds the spot, just so, with the pressure and rhythm that she seems to like best, and licks harder, tasting all of her, and knowing he is finally, finally doing what he was born to do, serving as he was made to.

"Fingers," she orders. "In your mouth first, then in, and fuck me with them--"

And Marcus slides two fingers easily into her, feeling the heat as she tightens around him, feeling the strange texture, and he pauses, distracted by the wealth of sensations. He wonders if she would let him rub himself with his other hand, but he cannot speak and she has not said.

Cypriana is sprawled all across the desk now, with the creaking and jingling of metal -- for she is still armored -- sounding out rhythmically as she grinds her hips against him, pushing against his face. Marcus looks all along the length of her, shining, metal-bright, to see her head thrown back in pleasure, her face flushed.

"Faster! Harder!" she snaps, the very same words she uses to her soldiers. "Yes, like that--"

And she shoves herself down on Marcus' fingers, rubbing them against the same spot inside her again and again until Marcus barely has to do anything, and he is only keeping his tongue on her, and then she cries out and shakes, her hands locking in his hair, her body locking around his fingers.

When she stops shaking and her breathing slows, Marcus tentatively lifts his head.

"Was that well with you, sir?"

Cypriana's hand pushes him back down. "Poor little eagle, do you think I am as a man, to only come once? Again."

Marcus smiles and tilts his fingers up inside her. Yes. This. He will serve.

The second and third times, luckily, are quicker, and she does not seem to mind that he uses his fingers instead of his mouth to spare his aching jaw, until finally she collapses, boneless, and tugs him up to his feet with barely the suggestion of strength.

"You have done well," she says, giving him a lazy, languid smile, and Marcus' heart is full of pride. "How shall I reward you, hmm?"

Her hand undoes his belt, then slips under his tunic to trace a possessive line along his cock, and Marcus gasps and shivers with the feel of it. He could almost come, just from that, but then her hand drops away.

"As-- as you like, sir," he manages.

Her face brightens with a kind of recognition. "Ah, I know you now, boy. I know your type. You want to come on the armor, don't you?"

Marcus whimpers, a pathetic keening sound, and can only nod, trembling, as unbelievable lust runs through him. He might come just from the suggestion. He might die from the suggestion. Perhaps this is how sufferers in the army are really executed.

Cypriana spreads herself out on the desk, nearly kicking her helm to the floor, but then she stares at it as if she has a better idea and puts it on her head again. She is gleaming now, even in the shade of the tent, every inch the soldier. The rings of the mail-shirt move as she breathes, and she smiles.

"Touch yourself, Aquila."

He doesn't need to be told twice. Marcus pulls up his tunic with one hand, and his other hand is already on his cock, rubbing himself just as he likes it, squeezing, and oh, this will not take long, not at all, and he shudders as Cypriana shoves a fold of her cloak back over her shoulder and pushes the pteruges down, arranging herself more formally, drawing herself up in command--

"Sir," Marcus chokes out, "may I-- may I--"

Cypriana nods. "Come."

And he does, shaking, bracing himself on the desk so he will not lose his balance entirely, as his seed spatters white across the metal, again and again, and it is so beautiful, it is exactly right, and he has been ordered to do it, to do exactly what he would have wanted--

He falls to his knees, after. He has not been ordered to, but he has no strength in him to stand, and it seems right to. "Thank you, sir, thank you," he is saying, and his eyes are hot with tears. This is what it means to suffer. This is what he has denied himself.

His centurion's hand is on his shoulder, pulling him up. "By Castor, Aquila, have you never had sex you liked before?"

He shakes his head, mute.

"That is a shame." Cypriana's face is full of a great sadness, or so it seems to him, just for an instant. "You did not even try it, when you were a youth?"

"I-- I always wanted to be a soldier, sir." Now that he knows, truly, what he is giving up to serve Rome, his heart aches. But at least he has had this, just this once.

She smiles, and the smile is kind. "You are a soldier already, with the makings of a very good one in you. And it is hard, but if you are careful you can have both of your desires. For now, there is the matter of your punishment."

Marcus blinks. "My punishment?"

Cypriana nods. "You," she says, sounding both fond and commanding at the same time, "are going to help me out of this gear. And then you are going to go take my mail-shirt and get it clean. Ask someone if you don't know where the sand barrels are."

Marcus gapes. "But your armor-- I just--"

"This is your punishment for not paying attention during weapons training," she says, severely. "You may tell them what you like about the condition of the armor, but I suggest you not tell them the truth."

It is an order. He must obey. "Sir," he says, saluting.

And Cypriana catches his swinging arm with her hand. "It gets better after you get your own armor," she adds, with a gentle smile. "Or so it has seemed to me, with the others like you I have known. Though that is only the armor. The authority will probably still be an issue for you. But I will advise you on that."

Marcus nods. "Yes, sir."

"Exactly." She grins, broadly, as one might smile at a friend. "So you will come back tomorrow for more instruction, Aquila."

"Of what kind?" Marcus asks as he leans forward to unhook the clasp binding the neck of her mail, to do as he is bid.

His centurion's breath in his ear is warm, and her voice is full of laughter and promise. "All kinds."


End file.
